Michele Feltman Strider's Blog, page 2

The End of the World As We Know It...

Have you heard? The world is going to end on December 21, 2012*.



The Ancient Mayans said so.



That or they ran out of rock on which to carve their very groovy and ornate calendar.



Since what remained of their once-great civilization was ultimately destroyed in the 1600s, it's sort of hard to ask them.



Still, it's a good excuse for radio stations to throw that R.E.M. song into the lineup this month, which is a nice break from all of the Christmas music.



Plus, it makes those extra holiday pounds seem inconsequential.



And gives procrastinators a better-than-usual excuse for putting off their holiday shopping.



However, since the Ancient Mayans failed to predict the invasion by the Spanish, the chances probably aren't great that they nailed this one.



Nevertheless, let's pretend they're right and that we have only 21 days of existence left.



How would you spend them?



As this is only a drill, I don't advocate emptying out your savings account, running up your credit cards, and eating sticks of raw butter for every meal. It is, however, a good opportunity to practice, not merely surviving, but living each day – if not to its fullest, at least more fully.



For the next three weeks, treat every day as if it might be your last. Not as if it were definitely your last, but with a simple acknowledgment that it could be. 



Below is a suggested sample week:









Day


Apocalyptic Indulgence



Sunday
Spend 24 hours straight in sweatpants.


Monday
Make a long, detailed To-Do list... then wad it up, chuck it
uncompleted into the recycle bin, and couchsurf in front of MNF**
all evening.



Tuesday
Twos Day! Double down on dessert – because two cookies are
better than one.



Wednesday
Order in. Eat directly out of the delivery containers.



Thursday
Thor's Day! Watch a mindless, fun, culturally insignificant
popcorn movie.***



Friday
Fried Day! If anyone asks, yes, you do want fries with that.


Saturday
Vacation time! Sleep in until 7AM – Hawiian Standard Time.





Today's lesson: ...And I Feel Fine.



Next: Sorry, but “not planning blog posts” is also one of my Apocalyptic Indulgences.

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*Unless, of course, it doesn't. In which case, Happy Solstice!



**Or the mind-numbing show of your choice.



***Though Apocalypse Now may initially seem an appropriate choice, while it is one of my all time favorite films, it is also neither mindless nor insignificant. Instead, for Post-Apocalyptic fun, I recommend Tank Girl. 



























BONUS:

President Bartlet and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Thank You Notes

Dear Dad,

    Thank you for always encouraging me to go where the water was a little deeper and the waves a little bigger... and for being right behind me as I did so.





Dear Mom,

    Thank you for finding it humorous and whimsical that occasionally I went out in public “in character,” (complete with fake accent) and for driving me to auditions and rehearsals rather than to the funny farm.    





Dear Brother,

    Thank you for (mis)spending countless hours of your youth hanging out with me on piers, eating tacos, and listening to rock albums older than we were.





Dear Husband,

    Thank you for being the type of man who will, without complaint, stand in the ladies' lingerie department and hold my purse while I shop for bras. (And then take me out to lunch to boot.)







Dear Cats,

    Thank you for allowing me to achieve my ultimate purpose as a human being by serving your every need/whim.





Dear Birds in the Tree Across the Street,

    Thank you for keeping the cats entertained long enough for me to write goofy blog posts.





Dear Internet,

    Thank you for providing me with all of the wonderful cat videos to watch when I can't come up with ideas for blog posts.





Dear Tomato Plants,

    Thank you for producing so many delicious tomatoes this year, in spite of my total incompetence as a gardener.





Dear Fermentation,

    Thank you for transforming good foods into great foods.





Dear Readers,

    Thank you from the bottom of my heart. 



Sincerely,

Michele Feltman Strider







Today's lesson: I have a lot to be grateful for.



Next: Something far less appreciative.

Flixgiving

Below are 10 suggestions for movies to watch over the Thanksgiving
weekend along with my brilliantly compelling reasons for doing so.



Adjust your Netflix queue accordingly.








Movie
Why


Groundhog Day
Because you are not a slave to the calendar.



The Shining
Psychosis and homicide aside, it's nice to see a family
spending time together.


The Blues Brothers
After fighting the holiday travel traffic, the car chases* are
quite cathartic.



Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory
Give the kids a reason to fear sweets = more pie for you.


Close Encounters of the Third Kind
Watch Richard Dreyfuss demonstrate proper mashed potato
sculpting technique.


Waterworld
It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without a turkey.



Tom Jones
You'll feel significantly less awkward about your own family
dinner.


The Matrix
Watching Keanu chow down on a big bowl of “single-celled
protein combined with synthetic aminos, vitamins, and minerals”
will make you feel a lot better about yet another day of
leftovers.


It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World
It works equally well as either preparation for or
justification against participating in the Black Friday sales.



A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving
It simply wouldn't be Thanksgiving otherwise.






 


Today's lesson: Making lists is fun.



Next: Probably not another list. Probably.

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*Not enough? Check out Ronin . Thirty minutes of plot, an hour and a half of car chases. Bless you Mr. Mamet. Bless you, sir.

The Big Deal About Small Talk

If you've been anywhere near anything with a speaker or screen during the past year, you've probably been subject to a lot of Big Talk – speechifying, bloviation, and politicking.



Exhausting though it may be, it's also not inappropriate. A presidential election is about big issues and big ideas and it has a big effect on all of us. It's a big deal and it's right to treat it as such.





In the midst of all of this Big Talk, though, let's not lose sight of the value of small talk.



From Merriam Webster:* small talk: n. light or casual conversation, chitchat



Like a troop of baboons grooming each other on an outcropping of rocks, the idle chatter of small talk is important to our survival. We learn about dangers (The cookies from the bakery on the corner tend to be dry), food supplies (The ones from two blocks over are better. They use real butter.), new developments in the group (Barbara found a great recipe for peanut butter cookies.), and sexual availability (Hey baby, what's cookin'?). It brings us together, helps foster understanding, and gives us an excuse to have cocktail parties.



After being bombarded for so many months with so much Big Talk, you may have fallen out of the habit of making small talk.



You begin by asking another person about themselves – what they do, think, or feel – then actually listening to the response. The advantages are: 1) you might learn something interesting, funny, or important, 2) while the other person is busy talking, you have more time to enjoy your beverage or hors d'oeuvre.



In the end, a meandering twenty minute diatribe about German potato salad, Game of Thrones, and Gary Bettman's suspect IQ is more about the conversation itself than the specific topics discussed. It's not about convincing the other that the Red Wings are genius and that capers are not acceptable as food. It's about the laugh shared, the connection made. It's not about creating a conclusion or consensus, but a communion. 



Today's lesson: I'm fine. How are you?



Next: More picayune trivialities



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*Peter Sagal is awesome.

The Curse of the Black Cat

Looks innocent enough...

It all started three and a half years ago when a black cat crossed my path.



Technically, he was a kitten and we drove 30 minutes north to adopt him. The curse part, though, remains accurate.



His name is Sushi and, as his name implies, he is full of vinegar.



He is sleek and shiny and perfectly black, with bright, glowing yellow eyes. His claws are extraordinarily long and sharp and his fangs protrude ever so slightly. Beneath his chin there is a small cluster of longer fur shaped like a pointed goatee, making his resemblance to a demon complete.



The first night he spent with us, he climbed out of the little bed we'd arranged for him and on to ours, snuggling himself down to sleep... on my husband's face. Since then, he's never missed an opportunity to remind us that he is the black cat at the center of the universe.





Whatever you are doing, Sushi is also doing.

Like all bad boys, he has a thing for leather. To date he has destroyed: three pairs of boots (two fashion, one motorcycle), two pairs of shoes, two bags, a jacket, three ottomans, and a sofa – all leather. That's in addition to two bedspreads, a pair of window blinds, four floor lamps, countless printed headshots, and my sanity. Yesterday I caught him trying to eat the dresser.



He can jump over six and a half feet vertically, closer to ten horizontally, and can climb straight up anything. His favorite places to play are: 1) the tangle of cords behind the easily broken TV, 2) the tangle of cords behind the easily broken synthesizer keyboards, 3) wherever you have momentarily set something breakable. He chatters at me nonstop while I'm trying to cook, gets underfoot every time I carry anything heavy up or down the stairs, filches things out of my purse, and has even been known to chase Jim around the apartment.





Sushi and Sashimi (aka Sasha)

I've tried various methods of exorcising his demonic tendencies: smothering him with punitive affection, distracting him from evildoing with toys, stuffing him so full of treats he can't move, and even getting a second cat – Sasha, a long haired female whom he adores. Still, this morning, I found him playing hallway hockey with three heirloom tomatoes he'd taken from my shopping bag. 



At this very moment, Sushi is in the kitchen, rooting through the cabinet in which I keep the cat accoutrement, helping himself to a new toy. He's learned to pry the door open with his claws. I've learned to give up.





Today's lesson: Beware of black cats crossing your path.



Next: The Cocktail Party Official 2012 Election Statement... or maybe I'll just have a cocktail...

Something About Aimee

FYI, proper beach attire is actually an ankle-length skirt.

We were full, you see. Almost too full to breathe.* Certainly too full for the long drive back from Gulf Shores. We needed salt air to stimulate digestion – so we went to the beach.



We placed our chairs just beyond the reach of the breaking waves. Dusk was creeping in from the corner of the clear western sky. The breeze picked up, churning the water into a stormy greyish-green. The moist sand made a happy, squeaky sound between our toes and the beer cooler was within easy reach. Spring evenings on the Gulf Coast are dangerous. It's too easy to find yourself considering life in a hammock to be a legitimate career option.



While watching the waves and coming close to a zen-like mindlessness, I was distracted by a sudden flurry of activity out of the corner of my left eye. I tried to ignore it, as further investigation required the effort of turning my head. Yet, the flurry continued to flurry and my left eye continued to not quite ignore it, and eventually I was forced to put my neck muscles in play.



“Mom,” I asked quietly of the dark-haired woman sitting next to me. “Is that girl over there in her underwear?”



Like Joe Cool's cooler cousin, my mother sneaked a quick glimpse of the person to our left and nodded “Yes,” then giggled, “Isn't that Aimee?”



The “Aimee” she referred to is a character from my first book Homecoming: A Novella , whom I describe as: “...a big girl. She was not especially tall, nor was she truly fat. She was just too much. She was a caricature of femininity, all breasts and hips and flesh. Her skin was taut and tanned, her body a combination of baby fat and budding sexuality.”



The skivvies-clad young woman, in glorious display of obliviousness for a person her age, began bounding up and down the beach in her rather large, practical beige brassiere and ill-fitting, lime green cotton underpants. She twirled, and strutted, and danced near the waterline, while I fervently prayed that no waves would splash her and further stress test the elastic of her undergarments. Sensing that people were watching her, but not for the reason she seemed to think, she increased her flirting, jiggling, and preening by an order of magnitude. I wanted to throw a tarp or something over her, but instead of smothering her with beach towels, I thought back to what I'd written about Aimee and her trip to the beach on Dauphin Island.



"Aimee had flung off her clothes the second we hit the sand, in spite of the breeze. Her suit was decidedly too small and bit into her young flesh, emphasizing the softness of her curves. Her breasts were about to burst from the small triangles of fabric wholly inadequate to contain them. Her buttocks and thighs jiggled with every move, as, to be honest, did the flesh on her belly and arms. Her hair blew wildly, first entangling her body, then flying freely behind her. She moved without grace, but with an energy and self confidence that I found myself envying."



The panties-girl at first struck me as embarrassing and I'd pitied her for failing to conform to social norms. Was my sense of self-superiority actually disguised envy? Was I jealous of, if not her choice of beach attire, her carefree disregard for common custom and public sentiment – a freedom I'm not easily able to allow myself? No matter how many (hilarious!) snarky comments I thought (or whispered) about her, or how foolish she may have looked in the eyes of any number of people on the beach that day, she was happy, having fun, content in her own skin... and underwear.



Today's lesson: A) Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. (often by your very own self!)  B) I miss Underoos.



Next: Something else!




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* LuLu's at Homeport ... crab melts and margaritas... tasty little gut bomb, that...

A Gift of the Heart

Picture it: That special day, sliding the ribbon from the box, savoring the anticipation before peeking inside to find... Jumper cables.



Sigh... Pure romance!



Don't laugh. That ugly mess of red and black cables connected to King Kong's nipple clamps is one of the most heartfelt gifts a person can receive, along with first aid kits, road flares, and tire slime. 



Diamonds may be forever, but nothing says “I want you in my life for a long time to come” like safety equipment.



More important than the gift itself is the thought process behind it, and the most loving sentiments can inspire some of the most pragmatic presents. Behind each “Christmas seat-belt cutter” and every “Anniversary fire-extinguisher” is an imagined tale of such peril and woe that the Bronte sisters are kicking themselves post-mortem for not having written it. Getting snow tires for your birthday doesn't mean your significant other didn't listen when you mentioned many multiple times how much you like black pearls. It means that the image of you, stranded, helpless, in a ditch by the side of the highway in the middle of the night (always in the middle of the night!) in a blizzard, was more immediately compelling than that of you wearing pretty, sparkly things.



There's nothing wrong with enjoying pretty, sparkly things or wanting to receive them as gifts. Just don't miss the significance behind the seemingly insignificant. In other words, “he went to Jared's” because he wanted you to be happy. He went to Kragen Auto Parts because he wanted you to be alive.



Today's lesson: It's the thought that counts... Sort of like coming up with interesting ideas for blog posts...



Next: Something!

The Peril of the Unexamined Life

The proliferation of pretty pink ribbons on posters, produce, products, and people is a sure sign that it's once again “Breast Cancer Awareness Month.”



Did You Know?


Excluding cancers of the skin, breast cancer is the most common cancer among women, accounting for nearly 1 in 3 cancers diagnosed in US women. (Only lung cancer accounts for more cancer deaths in women.) (American Cancer Society)
One in 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in her lifetime (National Breast Cancer Foundation)
Estimated new cases and deaths from breast cancer in the United States in 2012: New cases: 226,870 (female); 2,190 (male), Deaths: 39,510 (female); 410 (male) (National Cancer Institute)
Breast cancer incidence and death rates generally increase with age. Ninety-five percent of new cases and 97% of breast cancer deaths occurred in women 40 years of age and older. (American Cancer Society)
Breast cancer incidence rates are higher in non-Hispanic white women compared to African American women for most age groups. However, African American women have a higher incidence rate before 40 years of age and are more likely to die from breast cancer at every age. (American Cancer Society)
In the U.S., the 5-year survival rate for all women diagnosed with breast cancer is 90 percent. When breast cancer is found early and confined to the breast, the 5-year relative survival rate today is 99 percent. Most survivors will live a full life and never have a recurrence. (Susan G. Komen For the Cure)




Today's lesson: Socrates said that the unexamined life is not worth living. So give your girls a little squeeze to show them that you care... and see your doctor regularly. (Do the BSE with the ACS!)



Next: The most romantic gift ever.

Micheleancholia

Dürer understands.

I'm currently enjoying a spell of Melancholy. 



Blog posts, you've probably noticed, have been sporadic. My novel, originally slated for publication next Spring, is proving to be more challenging than anticipated and won't be out until Autumn 2013 at the earliest. My cooking has been uninspired and my housekeeping sketchy. Even my hair is as limp and lifeless as the “before” picture in a shampoo ad.



Having read that melancholy was “the condition of having too much black bile,", I've been treating it with homeopathic doses of dark chocolate and black coffee. As “black bile” was believed to be secreted by the spleen, I'm also taking care to keep mine well vented by yelling at pundits on talk radio. Mostly, though, I sit in front of a blank page on a screen, waiting for inspiration to again grace me with her presence.



I have no idea how long it will last, but I trust that, as in the past, it will pass. Eventually my humors will balance and realign themselves and the creative impulse will return.



In the meantime, it can be a challenge to “drive the dark of doubt away.” Looking back, all you can see are your mistakes, and it's easy for “It's not there today” to become “Maybe I never had it at all.”

 

Don't give the weird sisters Melancholy, Chagrin, and Regret control of your fate. Screw your courage to the sticking place and tell self-doubt to screw off. Critique the outcome, but don't criticize the effort. Revise your tactics rather than give up your goals. Success isn't guaranteed, but it's a possibility. The path may be paved with rejection, but hearing “No” is better than never hearing anything.  



Display your talents so they can be recognized, remember that vulnerability is a normal byproduct of exposure, and try to keep a good sense of humor.



Today's lesson: I have writer's block.



Next: I have writer's block

Give Peas a Chance

In honor of World Peace Day :



Whirled Peas Soup  



Stock Ingredients:

6 cups water

4 – 6 smoked ham hocks, (depending on size & meatiness)

2 large carrots

3 stalks of celery

3 bay leaves

1 dash of cumin (whole, not ground)

1 dash red pepper flakes

1 dash thyme

Salt and black pepper to taste



In a large pot, add all ingredients and bring to a boil.

Cover and simmer on low for at least 2 hours (vegetables should be squishy and the gelatin mostly cooked out of the hocks).



With a slotted spoon, remove ham hocks and set aside to cool.

Using a large bowl and colander, strain out vegetables, etc. from broth.

Poor stock into large measuring cup, straining a second time with a mesh strainer.

Add water to make 6 cups of liquid.

Rinse out stock pot and return stock.

When cool, shred meat from ham hocks.



Pea Soup  

Ingredients:

6 cups prepared stock

1 pound dried split peas (green or yellow)

Shredded meat from prepared ham hocks



Rinse and sort peas.

Add to stock and bring to a boil.

Reduce heat and add shredded pork.

Cover and simmer, stirring occasionally, until peas have fully dissolved.



Serving suggestions: Goes great with beer bread and sharp cheddar cheese.





Today's lesson: Writer's block... When I can't write, I cook!



Next: See above mention of writer's block...